I stopped digging. There. I should be able to squeeze my body through that opening—especially after my starvation diet.
I turned around. Stick Girl was sitting up, staring straight at me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
I froze—waiting for the bloodcurdling scream that would bring the entire opium-hazed household into this room.
But, no.
She just watched me, clutching her sticks to her chest. She knew what I was doing—and she was letting me go.
Now or never. Mr. Ly had already performed his nightly ritual: After checking on the hostage, he smoked opium for fifteen minutes and passed out—a ritual mirrored by the rest of the adults. A mild breeze rustled the fronds on the roof and the papaya trees outside. Stray dogs barked sporadically in the distance. And the snores, snorts, and wheezes all contributed to make white noise. Perfect for muffling any sounds I’d make.
Sure, steady, and slow,Vassar. No abrupt movements to arouse suspicion. A low, continuous rustle of bamboo would be chalked up to the wind, but a crash through said bamboo would be most certainly figured out—even by someone in an opium stupor.
Before I could slide through—Stick Girl got up and held out her hand:
My retainer.
I took it from her. She looked so small and solemn. And sad. I thought a moment. Then I removed my necklace and hung it around her neck. Nulla dies sine linea. Was it futile to hope that someday she’d learn to write? The silver Latin medallion hung down to her belly button. She looked down at the glinting metal and touched it tentatively with her finger. Then looked up at me. And smiled. Actually smiled.
Then she picked up her bundle of precious sticks. After careful examination, she selected one and handed it to me as if bestowing a wand of gold. The only thing of “value” she owned in the world. I thanked her—the only word I knew in her language—and slipped it into the front pocket of my daypack.
We stared at each other a moment, then exchanged more smiles. I’d miss my little shadow. What would happen to her? Would she be stuck here for life? I had to believe she’d somehow make it out—with her tenacity and determination.
I fought the urge to bring her with me. Unless I could smuggle her out of the country, she would end up right back here. How helpless I felt at the injustice of life.
Good-bye, Stick Girl.
She lay back down on her mat, clutching the medallion in her hand, her bundle of sticks forgotten.
Deep breath. I lay flat on my back and pushed back the bamboo fronds, then slowly slid my head through the opening. I inched my body through. Wiggled my shoulders—tight fit. Too tight.
I was stuck.
Don’t panic, don’t panic. Think. Use your deductive reasoning and problem-solving skills to solve this mild dilemma. You always pride yourself on your mind—now use it! I tried not to think about my shirt and pants sucking up my very own urine like a sponge. Like it mattered—my stench could already stop a Mack truck.
After pausing to assess the situation, I realized I needed to sever a few more fronds in order to widen the gap enough for the rest of my body to follow. I tried ripping them with my hands, but they were tougher than they looked. It was evident I needed some sort of sharp object to cut the fronds, otherwise I’d be stuck permanently—unable to either return inside or escape outside.
What did I have in my pockets or my buttpack? My flashlight … earplugs … nothing sharp there … Wait! Stick Girl’s sharpened stick! It was in the outside pocket of my daypack—which barely grazed the top of my head. If I could only force one arm through the opening, I could remove it. I gritted my teeth and then shoved my right arm through the ragged edge of the bamboo. Not pleasant—like a wedge of cheese shredded by a grater. Ignoring the gashes and the oozing blood, I reached for my daypack. I slowly unzipped the front pocket and then felt around for the stick. Got it!
With a surge of strength I punctured the first flattened cane with the stick, then ripped right through five other canes. I froze, listening for any movement from inside. Nothing. I quickly slithered the rest of my body out. I was free!
Then something moist touched my face.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It Can’t Get Any Worse
It was only through sheer willpower that I didn’t scream. I lay ramrod straight, eyes wide open, pulse drumbeating so loudly, I just knew everyone in the village heard it—my very own Telltale “Disrespectful” Heart!
Slowly, I pivoted my head to see … the pot-bellied piglet! His tiny, moist nose inches from my cheek! My limbs went limp with relief as the little fella grunted and prodded me—trying to locate his mother’s teat!
I scrambled to my feet, snatched up my pack, climbed over the primitive fence, and walked slowly in the direction of the jungle path. I couldn’t risk running—that would arouse suspicion. No one ran around at night in Hmong villages. The moon was full, so I didn’t have to turn on my Maglite just yet. I knew I had to make my way around the village until I hit the trail down the mountain. And, once out of sight, I could use it. I noticed, leaning against the fence, a bamboo basket, the kind the Hmong wore on their backs to carry rice, bamboo, vegetables, and babies. I dropped my daypack into the basket and pulled it over my shoulders. I draped my extra shirt over my head like a shawl and wrapped the thin blanket around my waist like a sarong. Up close I couldn’t fool anyone, but from a distance at night maybe I could pass for a Hmong woman—albeit a strange, overly tall one.
Grunt, grunt. The sow was following me. Along with her piglets.
A chicken chirped. A stray mutt ran over to investigate the odd sight. The sow and her litter scattered. The mutt’s ears folded back as he sniffed my leg. Uh-oh. But after a thorough investigation of my pee-stained pants, he trotted off.
The village slept. I didn’t see one soul in my trudge around the perimeter.
That’s because they’re all animists and fear jungle spirits and don’t venture out after dark. Great: perfect thought to have in your head at this moment.
The trail loomed in front of me—I did it! I planned my very own escape!
Don’t get all cocky, Vassar. This is just the beginning.
Cocky? I was in the jungle, on a mountain, in a remote tribe, in Communist Laos, and feeling cocky? Euphoric, to be exact! I escaped! I’d never felt so self-sufficient in my life! Or so IN THE MOMENT. Grandma Gerd, I’m LIMMING! I wanted to shout.
Wait. What would I call her in the future? Something to add to my To Do List.
Then as I began to stumble down the mud-and-rock path, the euphoria dissipated: I’m alone. In a jungle. Unprotected. Not knowing who or what lurks in the dark foliage that surrounds me. Not knowing when my escape will be noticed and a bevy of surefooted Hmong tribesmen will be running down the mountain after me.
I quickened my pace, still able to see fairly well, thanks to the slivers of moonlight that shone through the banana leaves and palm fronds. I stepped in a patch of mud—skidding! The basket on my back hindered my equilibrium. I teetered on the edge of the cliff and barely grabbed the trunk of a giant fern in the nick of time. Okay. Break out the flashlight. The bobbing spot of light wouldn’t be visible from the village above, but could be noticed by some sleepless person in the various huts that dotted the landscape below. But would they necessarily think it odd or worth investigation? I had to take the chance. It seemed a better risk than catapulting over the edge of the mountain.
I pointed the flashlight inward toward the mountain and not out toward the valley. And I kept it low, hoping the bushes, rocks, and brush would hide most of the light.
I realized I wasn’t blinking, so worried I’d miss something. I forced my eyelids closed. Then opened them—flick!
My sole remaining gas-permeable contact whizzed through the air into the darkness.
Uh-oh.
My momentary euphoria seemed like an eternity ago.
Everything was smudged … blurred … I squinted, trying to make out shapes, but it just caused more blurring.
>
I am on a treacherous jungle trail, slippery with mud, soon to be chased by an angry tribal mob—AND I CAN’T SEE A FOOT IN FRONT OF MY FACE!!!!
Stop hyperventilating … calm down, deep breaths, in out, in out. Calm down. LIM … that’s what I need to be doing: LIMMING. Live in the moment, Vassar, live in the moment.
Okay.
I inched my way down the trail, using one bamboo stick to make sure I didn’t get too close to the edge and another to feel ahead for puddles and rocks and uneven steps. To say it was excruciating would be an understatement. At this rate, it would be dinnertime the next day before I even made it halfway down.
One foot in front of the other. One-two-one-two. On the bright side, I couldn’t pretend to see any menacing figures in the jungle. My myopia created a buffer. It seemed so unreal, my fear evaporated. I became just a filthy, tense, squinting mass of sweat hobbling down the mountain.
Luckily, the path was well worn and easy to follow. There would be no getting lost or meandering off on a side trail.
How still it was. I’d anticipated more creepy jungle noises. Instead: eerie calm, broken by an occasional breeze rustling the clusters of bamboo and rippling the banana tree leaves.
What was that stench?
How embarrassing. Just me. Just my ever potent Girl Unwashed in a Humid Climate Body Odor.
I didn’t allow myself to think of failure. Of not making it down. Of getting caught. I couldn’t afford to mull over worst-case scenarios. Before I could stop myself, I burst into giddy laughter. For no reason. Was I going insane? Well, it wasn’t like I didn’t have a reason. Make that many reasons.
Squinting gave me a headache. I stopped for a sip of water. Half a bottle left. And who knew how much farther to go? I couldn’t see far enough to gauge.
I will never leave the USA ever again. I will plan all my trips within the safety of the continent. I will not venture even into Canada. Never never never again will I get myself into this kind of a predicament. Never never never again will I accompany Grandma Gerd anywhere—not even to Gus’s Gas. I don’t care if she is my … mother.
I tripped over a rock … then another. And found myself on my butt. Tears ran down my face, stinging my useless eyes. Salt. It made me even thirstier than I was.
I’ll send out thought waves to Grandma Gerd, I thought as I picked myself off the ground: Come get me, come get me, come get me.
I realized that this was the first time in my life where there was no certainty of outcome. I could do nothing BUT Live in the Moment. I had no other choice.
As I hobbled down the trail, I realized: Wendy Stupacker will make valedictorian now for sure. How absurd my planning, To Do Lists, and Vassar Spore Life Goals seemed right now. All tasks that focused on the future, never on the current moment. Always “What next?” Achieve, achieve, achieve.
I remembered Wendy Stupacker and me facing off in that regional spelling bee. I knew I was going to win. Tranquility enveloped me like a cloud. I’d studied so hard that every word I spelled was an old friend, not a source of anxiety. I experienced that out-of-body feeling, like I was looking down on myself, delighted at my progress. We were neck and neck until I was spelling “ektexine” and my mind wandered to how my parents and I would celebrate that night—and I accidentally reversed the “k” and the “t.” The triumphant look on Wendy’s face brought me back to earth with a jolt. How could I have missed such an easy word!?
My problem then was the same as now: worrying about what comes next instead of fully savoring the here and now.
Glad you figured that one out now that you’re about to die, Vassar.
Energy. I needed fuel.
I’d tucked a little wad of purple sticky rice into my pocket that I’d managed to save from my last meager meal. Just as I was about to eat it, I had an idea. I rummaged around in the front pocket of my backpack and removed the Polaroid of Hanks and me. Then I spit on the sticky rice to moisten it, shuffled carefully over to the nearest tree, and used it to secure the Polaroid to the trunk—making sure it was only visible to those coming up the mountain and not down.
There. At least my rescuers would know I’d escaped and was somewhere in the vicinity.
My fingers were cramped from gripping the sticks, and my muscles ached from tensing to prevent slipping. Though it was still cold, sweat glistened on my arms. How far had I gone? The Angkor Wat-ch read 3:35 a.m. I’d been walking for almost two hours—and I only had an hour and a half before sunrise.
I paused to give my muscles a rest. Then I heard voices—and not in my head. Excited, babbling voices in the distance but definitely moving closer.
From behind me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It Really Can’t Get Any Worse
My heart practically ricocheted out of my chest. Think! Think! What-do-I-do?
Since I couldn’t outrun them, I only had two alternatives: Face them and risk possible dismemberment (or worse)—or hide.
I squinted at the terrain around me. Not much served as a hiding place from what I could see (which wasn’t much). I glanced over the edge—nothing but murky blackness. But looking up, the moon illuminated ferns, palms, and chunks of rocks protruding from the side of the mountain. No contest. I shoved my two sticks behind a giant fern growing along the edge of the path. Then I climbed up the side of the mountain like an orangutan. The basket on my back tilted me backward, and my feet, caked with mud, couldn’t get a grip on the slippery rocks. I started to teeter. Then totter. Then suddenly I was—
Falling!
Skidding backward across the muddy path!
And free-falling over the edge of the cliff!
My arms flailed wildly as I crashed through a cluster of bamboo and in the nick of time wrapped around an especially sturdy trunk—aborting my Fall of Death. Before I could catch my breath—the voices rang out loud and clear: Please don’t let my panting and the clanking bamboo be a giveaway. I jammed my right foot into a crevice and wedged my left foot between a rock and a tree root. And tried not to panic as I felt my throbbing nose to find it was broken. The cartilage clicked.
Just be thankful you’re not dead.
They probably wouldn’t be able to see me from the path, but could they detect me with their acute sense of smell or intuition or some native “third eye”? My whole body reverberated with fear. My nose stung. Blood trickled into my mouth. My knee throbbed from being whacked against a rock.
Will they or won’t they? Will they or won’t they?
Was my basket sticking out too far? Would they hear my wheezing?
About ten feet above me, shadowy shapes that I took to be heads abruptly jack-in-the-boxed above the bushes. Would they spot me? Blood from my nose smeared onto the bamboo trunk.
This can’t be Vassar Spore clutching for dear life to a bamboo growing out of the side of a mountain while her captors walk right by … . It must be a dream.
The low growl of Mr. Ly broke through my “dream.” I’d recognize his guttural intonations anywhere. I was indeed awake after all. Unfortunately.
Four other tribesmen were with him and they all were swiftly making their way down the path. Within seconds they were gone—although it seemed like an eternity. Snatches of their conversation cut through the stillness of the jungle. I waited another eternity before I even so much as shifted my weight.
Bloody, scratched, broken, and light-headed from lack of sleep. It would be a relief to get caught. Being held hostage was a cakewalk compared to what I was putting myself through. A faint wash of light began to illuminate the night sky. Dawn. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes with my shirt, ignoring the whiff of rank odor.
Face it, Vassar, you may die up here.
Suddenly it mattered quite a lot to me that I wouldn’t be able to turn in my AP/AAP novel. Some perverse part of me was irritated at leaving such a loose end.
Hanks. I didn’t want to die before I could finish that kiss.
And, most importantly, not before I could see Mom and Dad??
?and Grandma Gerd—again. Not to mention Denise, Amber, and Laurel.
If only they could see me now.
4:45 a.m. In fifteen minutes I’d be visible for all the world to see.
What goes up must come down, but in this case it was the reverse. Although they were heading down the mountain—away from me—when they didn’t find me, they’d be heading right back up: toward me. So what do I do now? Stay here clinging like a monkey to this bamboo, or risk the trail?
I calculated the odds of discovery and decided to take the gamble. Though queasy thanks to my broken nose, I mustered the strength to pull myself vertically up the muddy cliff. I was tempted to rip off the basket and toss both it and my daypack over the side, but who knew how long I’d have to hide out in the jungle in survival mode. My entire body trembled as I strained to hoist myself up. The veins in my neck pumped like little fire hoses. Fresh sweat gushed out of me. My fingers released their grip on the bamboo of their own accord. And I slid right back down to my starting position.
Now I was really stuck.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miracle?
Clinging to the side of the cliff, my breath coming in jagged spurts, I got tunnel vision because of my locked knees. Since it was impossible to put my head between my legs—much less move—I knew I was about to black out. Which meant I would loosen my hold on the bamboo. Which meant …
This is it. If I pass out, I pass into the next life. IF there is a next life.
Since I had nothing to lose:
“Help! Help me!”
Was that my voice croaking feebly? No one would be able to hear that.
Blackness clouded my eyes. My ears rang.
“Heeelllppp!” Barely a warble.
My grip weakened.
“God—if indeed you’re NOT dead and DO exist—now would be a REALLY good time for a miracle! That is, if you still do them in the twenty-first century?”